[ LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE]
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
‘To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow.’
‘That, Father! will I gladly do: ‘Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!’
At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.